


Only That Which They Defend

by Onceyourempire



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, M/M, Minor Aragorn/Arwen - Freeform, Ya boromir dies in this one too sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 02:10:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15939617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onceyourempire/pseuds/Onceyourempire
Summary: If fate was kinder, more just, Boromir would be the one on the throne of Gondor. She would love him as her king. Minas Tirith would sing his praises throughout time and memory.Gondor will have Aragorn instead. He hopes he will be enough.





	Only That Which They Defend

**Author's Note:**

> Me: (abruptly, while watching fellowship) Boromir def thinks he should be king of gondor and aragorn agrees  
> Ezra:.......i think i’m actually crying.
> 
> Additional shoutout to Z who, when texted about medicinal plants of middle earth late at night, promptly began googling with me

+++

 

Aragorn freezes, muscles tense like he's waiting for a hit that’s sure to come.

“I — “ Boromir pauses, runs a hand across his eyes, and tries again. “I only wish —“

“Do not apologize for the truth.” Aragorn says. He thinks to lay his hand on Boromir’s arm, but doesn’t move. “You would be the king Gondor deserves. Far better than I.”

“I am not the one she will have.” Boromir won’t look at him.

There’s nothing to say to that. They sit in silence, and the trees around them seem to close in.

+++

It starts like this.

Gandalf falls and Aragorn does not move.

Gandalf falls and Boromir has one arm around Frodo and one arm reaching for the door the moment Gandalf is gone.

The hobbits, distressed, only move by the guidance of Boromir’s voice and hands pushing them towards safety. Aragorn might have died as well, stuck for all time in the horror of a neverending moment, but Boromir calls his name in panic and fury.

Once outside, Aragorn knows the burden of leadership falls on his shoulders. Gandalf had placed it upon him before they fled, as if he knew his death was near. Aragorn also shares a friendship and a history with most of the company, one that lends well to leadership — the hobbits trust  him, Legolas believes in him, and even Gimli has taken Aragorn into his confidence.

Boromir — well. Aragorn is also the heir of Isildur. It almost counts for something.

“Legolas.” He says when he finds his voice, roughly pulled back from the brink of grief. “Get them on their feet.”

Boromir turns on him, which is jarring. That he knows how to be both sharp and compassionate in such quick turns unsettles Aragorn. Every choice he makes is wrong, it seems, but there’s nothing to be done about that. He has to make them and they need to leave before the orcs scuttle out of the mountain like so many spiders. There is no time for compassion.

The next time they rest, leagues away from Moria and her many tombs, Aragorn feels trapped again — this time, seeing Boromir making the right choices as Aragorn freezes, over and over. He knows, instinctively, how to lead in times of trouble, while Aragorn falters and stumbles. The doubt of his claim to the throne of Gondor takes new form.

Aragorn rolls to his side and pretends not to see Boromir quietly speaking to a shaking Pippin.

+++

Frodo is familiar with grief, though its plague has weighed heavier on him in recent months. The other hobbits do not fare as well. Sam trods after his master with a duller eye. Merry sticks a little closer to Pippin, always wary. Pippin chatters significantly less.

Legolas also struggles in a strange way. He has seen death, for all his long years, but it is rare for elves to lose loved ones. The folk of Mirkwood know it a little better, due to the danger of their lands, but the passing of Gandalf still strikes Legolas in quiet, painful ways. He no longer sings, and his silence is heavy during the long days of marching.

For Gimli the passing of Gandalf is immeasurably compounded by the loss of his family, the falling of an entire branch of his people. There are no words or actions to be taken for his pain, and echoes of it ring through them all.

Aragorn does his best to comfort them. It is difficult, while he struggles with his own grief and uncertainty, but he tries. Frodo in particular seeks his council and Aragorn finds peace in his company. Merry and Pippin, on the other hand, stray more and more to Boromir’s side. The other Man has always been fond of the hobbits, and it is his warm tone that seems to best soothe their minds when troubled dreams rouse them night after night. 

Perhaps it is because Aragorn is not used to those younger than him. Boromir is an older brother, after all, and familiar with shooing away terrors of the night. He has an ease with them borne of long years caring for both shaken soldiers and an adoring brother and he is both commander and friend when they need it. 

 

(But perhaps it is because Aragorn knows grief intimately. He is young, by elven standards, but worn and old by the judgement of his own people. He has lost countless friends and loved ones to the tides of time and bad luck, including those lost before he ever truly knew them. He learned to make space for grief long ago. Merry and Pippin, if they are lucky, will never have to.)

 

Aragorn chooses their path, certainly, but when a choice is to be made, his face is not the first one all eyes look to. That is fine, for now. There have been no arguments yet.  Aragorn puts aside the knowledge that soon he will need to think of the road beyond the river, a path which Gandalf had not spoken of and Aragorn does not know well. He knows there are many fights in their future, ones he cannot see the end of. That is fine as well.

The pain of passing has not become overwhelming yet but if he’s not careful it will drown them all faster than any current. That is — well. It hasn’t killed them yet.

+++

It happens like this.

They fight. Over something small.

Boromir speaks without thinking, a resentment growing since Legolas had first spoken Aragorn’s name at the Council.

“Gondor would be better served with me as her king.” He spits, “Rather than a stranger who cannot even make a choice for eight people, let alone thousands.”

And it is out in the air between them. Something shifts.

Aragorn freezes, muscles tense.

+++

It is hard to say what changes Boromir’s mind. It happens in such small fractions, has been happening in even smaller ones since the start of their journey, that the final switch between uneasy alliance to true loyalty goes unnoticed.

Aragorn looks over at Boromir one day and the Man smiles. They speak quietly of the road ahead with Legolas and do not argue.

Aragorn feels nervous. It seems that Boromir’s mind on the kingship of Gondor has changed, while Aragorn’s has not. He can only afford to fail so many people.

+++

Boromir mentions once or twice that someday he will be the Steward of Gondor. When Denethor passes, Boromir is bound to step into his place. It seems like he is carefully warming to the idea of said place being in service to Aragorn as king.

Aragorn does not like that image. It feels out of place. It looks a little clearer when their roles are reversed, but it’s best when Aragorn is out of the picture all together — Boromir as king, with his brother by his side as Steward.

 

(Aragorn barely remembers the younger son of Denethor, but he sees the light in Boromir’s eyes when he speaks of Faramir, the pride in his voice. Aragorn is certain he would do well as Steward with Boromir as his commander. They would be the pair Gondor has always deserved. Minas Tirith would sing their praises from her highest towers. It would be one of her more perfect songs.)

 

It can’t be like that.

Aragorn imagines it anyway, sometimes, when the night is quiet and he is alone on watch. Arwen leaves to the land of her people long ago, Boromir is a king, and Aragorn is in the North, where he belongs. They call him Strider and he is alone. The world, aligned as it should be. A terrible fantasy, and a sad one.

Aragorn clutches it a little too tightly. It is no more than he has earned.

+++

“Boromir has not been raised to be a king. He doesn’t have the temperment.”

Aragorn purses his lips.

“You have a steady hand and a clear heart, Aragorn.” Legolas puts slender fingers gently upon Aragorn’s arm. “You will lead us well, and bring strength to Gondor.”

Aragorn still isn’t sure he will ever return to Minas Tirith, but doesn’t speak the concern aloud. Legolas sees it anyway.

“When this journey is over —“

“It’s no use speaking of it now.” Aragorn interrupts.

No use speaking of it ever, he thinks, but if Legolas sees _that_ in Aragorn’s eyes, he says nothing of it.

+++

Aragorn clenches and unclenches his hand, watching the firelight cast shadows across his palm. His eyes itch from too many sleepless nights, and his companions turn restlessly in their blankets. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays that the Mallorn of Lothlorien will speak some wisdom to him if he sleeps.

+++

“I would be your steward.” Aragorn says, gentle but strained. “If you asked. She is your heart, and Gondor would be safer under your care.”

Boromir must see it then, the fantasy that Aragorn holds so tightly. The two of them, in switched chairs in the halls of Gondor. Or, perhaps, he sees deeper, to a world where Aragorn is alone and estranged but content knowing those he loves are safe and where they belong.

“No.” Boromir replies, and he smiles, only a little half hearted. “No. You are the rightful king.” 

+++

They are surprised by orcs the one time they stop on the eastern shore of Anduin. The scuffle is brief, just a small scouting party with astoundingly good luck, but they do not escape unscathed.

“You cannot act so recklessly.” Aragorn whispers, the sound grating his own ears. He can feel Legolas’ keen eyes on his back. “We need you whole if we are to make it to Mordor.” He tucks the end of the wrappings into themselves and brings his hands back from Boromir’s chest.

“You were in danger! You should be grateful!” Boromir snaps. He tugs his tunic back down, concealing the arrow wound and its dressing from their friends’ eyes. “If I had not intervened, it would have pierced you through.”

“I am hardier than I look, son of Denethor, and have survived worse than a single arrow.”

“But what if you did not this time?” Boromir adjusts his belt, hand resting on the Horn. “We need you, more than we need me. It was a risk worth taking.”

Aragorn’s mouth goes dry when Boromir looks at him, fingers clenching the horn of his people.

“You are invaluable.” Boromir adds quietly. “It is hard, to be a commander. I know this. It is hard to know that you are responsible for every Man who dies under your eye. I have been in the role many a time.” Boromir’s hand relaxes, and he absently lifts his other hand to rest over his wound. “I also know what it is like to be led. To know that you would give anything so your commander may live. It is a price I would pay gladly.” 

The silent ‘for you’ lingers in the air between them. Aragorn shoots a look over his shoulder to see if their companions are watching. Thankfully it looks like the others have all busied themselves with setting up their new camp before it gets too dark, Legolas included.

“You are brave, Boromir.” He says. “And foolish.”

Boromir scoffs and stands. 

“I am no commander.” Aragorn argues, standing with him. “I am certainly not in a position to lose even a single one of you. We are all invaluable now that we have lost Gandalf. If anyone is to be the one we die for, it is Frodo. He bears a burden I could not dream of.” 

Boromir’s jaw tightens. “As do you, Aragorn.”

Aragorn shakes his head. “No matter. All I ask is you take greater care. The injury is not serious, but you may not be so lucky next time.”

Boromir sighs, an angry hot thing that Aragorn can practically feel.

“Our people need you more than they need me. I would do it again, and I will if the need arises.” Boromir strides towards him, hand on Aragorn’s shoulder even as Aragorn tenses at his sudden approach. “Your life is worth mine a thousand times over.” He says, with a conviction he would not have held even two weeks ago. Aragorn wonders again when that changed. When did their tension ease and shift into the hope Aragorn sees in Boromir’s eyes when they speak?

Aragorn thinks a few things he could say; no, never, you are the greater man, we need you, I need you. He kisses Boromir instead and they both jolt with the surprise of it. Boromir’s hand relaxes and shifts to Aragorn’s neck, pulling him closer.

There is no peace here but there is quiet, for a moment.

+++

“Do you remember,” Boromir asks as they sit beneath lights of stars, “when I said I would be better suited to being king than you?”

Aragorn twists his ring with his thumb. “I do.”

 “And do you remember —“ Boromir chokes a little now, and needs a moment before starting again. “— do you remember when I said I could not see hope for Gondor?” 

“I do.”

“I was wrong.” Boromir’s eyes shine with tears. “I was wrong, Aragorn. You are the only hope Gondor has left.”

Aragorn keeps twisting his ring. The intertwined snakes bite into skin and leave behind a red mark.

“Frodo is the best hope Gondor has of survival.” Aragorn says and leans in to kiss Boromir so he won’t protest.

+++

Aragorn dreams one night of Minas Tirith. It has been many years since he last stood in her white halls, but it is as beautiful as he recalls. The tree blooms in a weak but warm spring sun. Boromir stands there, looking over the plains to a broken Minas Morgul. A simple circlet rests on his brow, and he beams as Aragorn approaches.

It is good. It is as it should be. He touches Boromir’s hand, careful of the guards near the tree but not too worried. Arwen is safe, he knows in his heart, across the sea with her father. She is happier without him. Boromir taps Aragorn’s fingers with his own and smiles again.

Aragorn wakes up with tears in his eyes. If Gimli sees the tracks of them on his face as they trade the watch, he does not say so. 

+++

It ends like this.

Aragorn refers to the Gondorians as his own people for the first time as Boromir lays dying. 

“Our people.” Boromir gasps, relief flooding his face. “Our people.”

Aragorn swallows and helps Boromir arrange his own death pose before cradling the son of Gondor’s face one last time.

Boromir calls Aragorn his king. It still does not sound right, but Aragorn weaves the sound of it into his heart for the day it does. He takes Boromir’s bracers as a reminder of his promise and the weight on his arms feels appropriately heavy.

Aragorn did not lie when he said he did not know what strength was in his blood. He can only hope he did not also lie when he said he would not let his people fall.

+++

Faramir looks at Aragorn almost like Boromir used to — the love is all for Eowyn, but the respect and resolve is a mirror.

This is not what he used to dream of, when the journey was new and Aragorn was finally thrust into the legacy he had always been keen to avoid; it is good, nonetheless. Arwen is here, her hand in his, which is greater than anything he could have hoped for. She does not fill the piece in him that plays the sound of Boromir’s last words in his sleep, but she fills in all the rest and more.

Aragorn has kept all his promises. The Horn of Gondor is repaired and passed down through the line of Stewards yet again. The tree blooms and Gondor flourishes as it had not in countless years. They speak of him with the reverence of the kings of old. They say he ushered in the dawn of Age of Men, the best and brightest time in all history. He has found peace both abroad and home — greatest of all, perhaps, he has mostly found it in his own heart.

Aragorn hopes that it is enough.

 

***

 

Boromir meets Aragorn before he knows him. The eyes of a man, clad in elven garments, startles him as he stares at a mural of his people’s history. The awe in his heart, the boyhood fascination with kings of old, it all seizes up and feels like shame under the careful gaze when he holds the hilt of Narsil. Blood drips down his fingers.

“No more than a broken heirloom.” He mutters to them both, and casts the blade aside. He hears the clatter of it falling and hesitates. A look over his shoulder says the man still watches him.

Boromir flees and leaves a trail of blood behind. His father would be ashamed.

+++

Aragorn is more Ranger than Man, Boromir realizes. More Elf than his appearance suggests. When he sings, it is not with the low notes of Minas Tirith, but with the clear clean songs of Rivendell. He sings of Elvish ladies and says little of the kings of Men. He would be a stranger in his own lands.

This is how it begins.

+++

It becomes surprisingly easy to feel at peace with Aragorn. Boromir has had little chance to be around elves or dwarves in his life, let alone hobbits. He finds the halflings to be a pleasant people, steadfast and cheerful, but before Rivendell he had thought they were creatures of legend. The ways of the most of the company are strange to Boromir, no matter how friendly they are. He is fond of them all, certainly, but Aragorn is one of his own. His mannerisms may be a blend of wood elf and Man, his accent Northern and lilting, but he is as close to home as it gets in these strange times.

They do not speak of Gondor, of Aragorn’s impending kingship. They speak instead of their lives — Aragorn tells tales of his brethren, the Dúnedain, and Boromir talks of Faramir, the long plains between Minas Tirith and Rohan. They smoke their pipes and scan the horizon at night, watchful but relaxed. When there is time, they spar, much to the delight of the hobbits and Gimli, the latter of whom will shout suggestions from the sidelines.

Boromir finds the dislike that sprang forth when he learned Aragorn’s name eases with every day.

+++

“I have been to Gondor.” Aragorn says once as they keep watch. Boromir shifts uncomfortably. “A long time ago.”

“How long?”

Aragorn’s mouth twitches. “Longer than you’d think.”

Boromir has heard of the long lives of the Dúnedain. He’d always wondered how true the tale was. “That’s not a very good answer, my friend.” He looks at Aragorn. Aragorn continues to gaze into the distance, his chin cupped in his hand.

“I knew your grandfather. A good man. A good friend.” 

Boromir’s throat gets a little tight. “What of my mother?”

Aragorn doesn’t move, but Boromir sees his eyes flick in his direction. “I knew her as well.” His glance shifts away. “She was very fond of you and your brother.”

A careful sentence to match a heavy question. Boromir supposes it's only fair. The memory of Finduilas keeps them quiet for a long moment before Aragorn smiles, a small awkward thing. “Your father never liked me much. That’s why I haven’t been back in a long time.”

A lie, but a neat one, so Boromir lets it go. “You will see the White Towers again.” He says. His own conviction surprises him and Aragorn both. Aragorn’s eyebrows raise and he looks at Boromir thoughtfully. For a moment Boromir feels as though he is in the chamber in Rivendell again, blood on his fingertips, but the moment soon passes.

“Perhaps.” Aragorn replies and his smile is smaller but more genuine than before.

+++

Gandalf has died.

Aragorn falters.

The dreams that haunt Boromir’s sleep seep into waking hours: Minas Tirith in flames, Faramir’s face frozen in death, The Ring on the Enemy’s finger.

Boromir hears his father’s voice when it is quiet, pleading with him to bring The Ring home. He knows what Denethor will think of Aragorn. Weak, hesitant, unsuited for the throne of Gondor. He knows his father would rather have his favored son ruling Gondor after his passing. Boromir has never truly thought anything of his father’s favor, but Aragorn’s leadership has given him pause.

Maybe, the voice of Denethor says when Boromir is alone and uncertain, Gondor does need a king. It just does not need to be of Isildur’s line. With the Ring — 

Boromir tries to never be alone, if he can help it. There is always someone to talk to, to look after, something to do.

It does not truly ease the siren song in his head but it is all he can do. 

+++

Boromir is tired and angry and says something he regrets. 

Shock flashes in Aragorn’s eyes and he physically steps back. Shock that Boromir said anything, he realizes, not shock at the words themselves. Boromir begins to apologize.

“Do not apologize for the truth.” Aragorn says, quickly, cutting him off. He shifts in place. “You would be the king Gondor deserves. Far better than I.”

Boromir hates the words. It is useless to speak of what cannot be. He can feel his hands shaking with a mix of emotions he cannot pick apart and clenches them. “I am not the one she will have.”

They don’t speak again for a long time. There seems to be nothing to say anymore.

+++

Aragorn grows into his role as leader in spurts and starts. He walks the woods to Lorien with confidence. His speaking shifts, learning when to be harsh and when to give. He still moves carefully around Boromir. Sometimes Boromir catches Aragorn looking at him, brows furrowed with worry and longing — but he doesn’t say anything. There’s still nothing to say.

The real revelation is that nothing needs to be said. Boromir watches Aragorn just as closely and sees the things his father would have missed, the things Faramir would have appreciated. Aragorn listens not because he lacks strength of conviction, but because he cares for the knowledge of others. He fears the throne because he worries he would not do well by the people of Gondor. He watches Boromir because he looks for the strength in Men, because he sees their weakness in himself.

Boromir starts to see the King in him, buried beneath years of being the Ranger.

This is how it changes.

+++ 

The voice beholding him to the Ring sounds less and less like Denethor and more and more like the dying screams of his brother.

+++

Boromir does not remember consciously thinking to leap in front of the arrow. He remembers thinking he didn’t have time to get his shield, cursing his lack of foresight, and then suddenly there was an arrow in his side and Aragorn catching him by the arm and shouting for Legolas to get his bow, find the archers first Legolas, Gimli can handle the swordsmen. 

Boromir scrambles for his own sword and pulls himself up. The battle is over in minutes, but the tearing of muscle in his side makes it seem significantly longer.

Aragorn sits him down as soon as they are safe and digs in his bag for bandages, a needle, and a small pouch.

“This is going to get uncomfortable.” He says, glancing up with a twitch of a smile. “Hold still.”

Easier said than done when every accidental jolt and bump as they struggle  to remove his many layers send flares of pain across his torso. Boromir grits his teeth through it, clenching his fists as Aragorn quickly pulls the orc arrow from his body. Thankfully, the stitches themselves are less laborious — Aragorn knows his work well and is blessedly quick, setting the needle on his leg before pulling an herb from the pouch and popping it in his mouth.

“What is that?” Boromir asks, gingerly reaching for the pouch and looking inside. “Kingsfoil?” 

“And goldenseal.” Aragorn says, pulling the kingsfoil out his mouth and gently applying it to the stitches. The skin he touches tingles and sends a shudder through Boromir. “You’ll drink a tea from the goldenseal. It should prevent infection.”

“I always thought kingsfoil was for headaches.” Boromir ran a thumb carefully over one petal. For something so potent, it had always surprised him how delicate the plant was.

“It has many uses.” Aragorn takes the pouch back and reaches for the bandages. “Much like the goldenseal. I am surprised a Steward’s son would not learn more of this. It has saved my life more than once during war.”

“Father had other uses for our time.” Boromir says simply. He pretends not to notice Aragorn’s mouth turning down at the mention of his father.” 

When Aragorn does speak again, it is to chastise him for trying to save Aragorn’s life, which takes Boromir off guard. It does not surprise him how _right_ he feels, how strongly he knows that saving Aragorn from the arrow was a risk worth taking. He does not think his life is worth nothing, certainly, but Aragorn is — Aragorn is vital to their mission.

He knows the moment he steps in and lays a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder that he would follow this man to the Black Gates themselves. Aragorn looks scared and sad and Aragorn leans into his touch before stepping in closer.

Aragon kisses him and his hand presses to the wound he bandaged. His nerves twinge around the physical reminder of his belief in Aragorn. His sacrifice, though small, will leave a mark of his loyalty on his body for the rest of his days — if he’s lucky.

Boromir kisses back, his heart thumping and sending a flush over his body. He curls his fingers in the hair trailing over Aragorn’s neck.

“Aragorn.” He says into Aragorn’s mouth. “My lord.”

His father would be ashamed.

Aragorn smiles and kisses him again, gently, and Boromir finds he doesn’t much mind what his father would think.

+++

They argue.

The Ring now haunts both Boromir’s waking moments and his turbulent dreams. It cries out in his brother’s voice for Minas Tirith, for Boromir’s protection, for the hands of Denethor. It pleads with him, begs him to take it and the Fellowship to the White City. His people would protect the Fellowship, Aragorn could see the city he will one day rule, and they can overthrow the Dark Lord from a stronghold. 

It scares him, how clearly he hears its song no matter how far he is from Frodo.

On some deeper level, it scares him that he listens.

He doesn’t start the conversation with the intent to fight but he needs Aragorn to hear him, to understand that Men have as much worth as the Elves Aragorn moves so freely amongst. Aragorn does not believe he can be king, does not believe in the strength of his own people, and Boromir struggles to find a way to make him believe.

It gets ugly quickly. Aragorn turns on him, fury and fear and disgust in his eyes. Boromir sees a stranger before him for a few moments, but the anger pounding in his veins keeps him from caring until it is too late.

It is the last words Aragorn speaks that bury themselves in Boromir’s heart, even louder than the song of the Ring.

What is worse? That he trusts Gondorians so little that he would keep Frodo so far away, or that he calls Minas Tirith “your city” instead of “our city”?

+++

He loses himself completely in the dreams no one else sees and when he wakes up, he knows he has doomed them all. 

He cries Frodo’s name, weak and pained.

Gondor is lucky she has better men than Boromir. He is not worthy of her. He is not worthy of anyone.

He looks up and sees Uruk-hai speeding down the hill and hears the shouts of Merry and Pippin. Boromir pushes his guilt and doubt down and draws his sword.

+++

Boromir, wheezing as blood fills his lungs, hopes that all he has said and all that Aragorn has promised will be enough. Boromir closes his eyes.

This is how it ends.

+++


End file.
